


Children Caught in War

by sansaofthemyscira



Series: Caught in War [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Cuz Jaime was actually a baby during Robert's Rebellion, F/M, Gen, Generation Swap, No Proofreading We Die Like Men, Sansa is the daughter of Rickard, Slow Burn, Teenagers falling in love, my babies deserve happiness, this is what a two year absence has done to me yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-02 21:49:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18819682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansaofthemyscira/pseuds/sansaofthemyscira
Summary: Wars are won on the battlefield of marriages.Sansa Stark, daughter of Rickard Stark, marries Jaime Lannister





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> A big "What if Sansa was Ned's and Lya's younger sister how would that affect her and oh, what if to ensure the Lannister army in Robert's Rebellion Jon Arryn and Ned Stark promised to release Jaime Lannister from the Kingsguard and marry the only remaining high born lady from the Arryn-Baratheon-Stark alliance to him, but said Jaime Lannister also kills his king so that's a big nono, but Ned also promised and Ned Stark never breaks his promises, as established by (show-)canon?"

i.

 

The honourable knight she dreamed of isn't what she gets. Her brother's allies trade her for the promise of an army. Old Nan's saying held true, then, that wars were won in the battlefields of love.

 

Sansa Stark isn't sure whether she can love a former kingsguard. An oath is an oath, she thinks, and an oathbreaker is an oathbreaker. But still - if the kingsguard's duty is to protect the Mad King, hers is to protect House Stark.

 

She travels south to King's Landing by boat, not stopping at the Riverlands to meet the heir to her house.

 

ii.

 

King's Landing smells, for sure, but nothing is worse than to hear her future husband wasn't only promised a release, but that he killed his King. Sansa empties her stomach at the port of King's Landing, unladylike, and blames it on the sea. There are Stark men to escort her, for which she's glad, the smiling (but tired) faces of the men who once asked her to dance, some of which even once asked for her hand. Her father's men, her brother's now.

 

When she sees Eddard she rushes forward, all grace and decorum forgotten, because this is Ned, and him and Benjen are the only ones left, the only Starks in this cruel world. Like mother, the others were gone too fast. His embrace feels like home, because he still smells of pine woods and clean, sharp snow, even here down in the south.

 

"I'm so sorry, Sansa", he whispers, and she knows it's about her marriage, and she knows he didn't want it for her. Her childhood seems so far away. She is a maiden flowered, however, and only a year and a half younger than Lyanna who ran away. She can marry and she must.

 

"For House Stark", she muffles into Ned's broad shoulders, "For House Stark, because Winter is Coming."

 

iii.

 

Her betrothed is handsome, yes, even beautiful, but his fixation with his sister seems so unhealthy. Sansa keeps most of her days reading in the vast library or talking to Tyrion, her future good-brother. He's kind, and very lovely in his own way, despite his small stature and ugly face. He's witty and very smart - Sansa thinks he would be a son to be proud of, but Lord Tywin barely regards his son whom he dragged to King's Landing. He's just a child to Sansa, though, one who desperately needs a mother, much like her and her siblings had. She takes his little hand and shows him the library, sings songs to him.

 

She's been there for three days when Ned finally tells her about the addition to his household he kept a secret from her. The little babe is beautiful with a newborn's blue eyes and shock of dark hair that is slowly thinning out. She can see Father in his tiny little face and it almost breaks her heart. Ned tells her it's his bastard son, and the shame of it hits her. This cannot be true, she thinks. It is Brandon’s, it must be, because honourable Ned would never do this. She doesn’t comprehend how he, of all people, would have it in him to dishonour a woman such. She strikes him once, hard across his cheek. While she knows it isn’t the little one’s fault, she can’t be anything but ashamed.

 

“He should be with his mother.” His answer is short, saying he is of his blood, of Winterfell, and he’s coming home. She suspects the mother died, but he won’t tell her more, no matter how much she pleads.

"I don't know how to name him." He tells finally.

"Give him a good, strong name. Gods know he will need it with his fate."

 

Sansa has a feeling her good sister is a good woman. She loved Brandon before his death, and Brandon wasn't an easy man to love - though he'd been easy to fall in love with.

 

(But Brandon never had any bastards – not even with Barbrey. And he never would’ve raised them at Winterfell.)

 

iv.

 

As the wedding nears, Sansa Stark gets summoned to meet her future good-father for the first time. Sansa is no stranger to Tywin Lannister's fame or the cruel things he did to secure the new King's loyalty. The atrocities commanded by him, secured through her hand in marriage. Everybody whispers in King's Landing. When she heard, she fled to the Godswood and prayed for her future husband not to be released. The ceremony is to be held in a few days, her wedding in a week. Until then, she stays away from the Throne Room as well as she can.

 

Tywin Lannister isn't a man as impressive as she thought. He certainly doesn't have her father's looming Northern stature or Brandon's demanding presence. But his eyes frighten her because they are cruel eyes. Capable of ordering the murder of little children.

"Lady Sansa", he speaks. She had a good enough upbringing not to speak up when not talked to. She knows it's the way of the South to muffle its women. "I hope you had a good journey. Forgive me for not inviting you sooner."

"It is nothing, My Lord Lannister, I understand the men have more important things to talk about than my wedding, now the war is over, thank the Gods." She means the old Gods, her Gods. He knows that, too. He is still for a moment.

"I hope you aren't a flight risk like your sister."

Sansa is thrown out by his words. "My sister was abducted, raped and killed." Like Elia and her children were. Of course, it is not the truth, but she swore an oath to her sister the day Rhaegar crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty. She wouldn’t betray her, not ever, not even to Ned. There is no chance in the world Tywin Lannister could possibly know.

"Are you a runner, Lady Sansa?" His green eyes pierce right through her. Terror fills every inch of her body.

"I know where my duties lie." She means it. She isn't like Lyanna - well she is, head full of romantic songs, but she's also not the wolfblooded child. That was Lya. That was Brandon. She's her father's daughter more than her mother's. Tywin Lannister seems pleased by her answer.

"Good." He pauses for a moment. "I thought you might like to wed in the Godswood as well. Of course, the official ceremony is to be held in the Keep's sept. I voted for the Great Sept of Baelor, but your brother said it might make you anxious, such a mass of people. Before the wedding in the light of the Seven a private ceremony with both our Houses and the King's family present will be held at the Godswood."

"Thank you, My Lord. It is very kind and considerate of you to think of my own faith."

He dismisses her and before she leaves the room he calls her again. "You aren't stupid, girl, I can see your wits behind that mask of meekness. Do not disappoint me."

She wouldn't even dare.

 

v.

 

The morning of her wedding her handmaids appear out of nowhere. They are new - picked by future Queen Lady Cersei herself. She does not trust any of them. When they want to twirl her hair in a complicated southern updo, she stops them.

"Go. I will call for you if needed." She has nobody here to form her own household. Her brother's men are men and the wetnurse is hardly capable of fitting a lady for her wedding. "Fetch Lord Stark. I'll finish on my own." She'll wear her hair like Mother did. The few memories she has of her are the ones with her hair down, simple braids pulling her hair from her temples. She was always smiling, her lady mother, with deep blue eyes like her own and Ben's. Mother's hair was a coppery brown, the legacy of Arya Flint's hair. Her own hair sways into auburn. Mother used to whisper of kisses by fire and the lucky girls to wear them, tales by Grandmother Arya. Mother had the wolfblood, too. Ache fills her heart.

Ned enters the room unannounced, and Sansa's eyes begin to tear. She has maybe spoken four words to her betrothed. Her good-sister hates her, her only ally is a juvenile imp. Her good-father watches her every move for a mistake. Shall she fail to provide an heir for House Lannister, he'll have her killed. And yet. Her duty lies with her house above all. She won't dishonour Ned and the direwolf sigil. She isn't Lya.

"The fairest maid of all. The She-Wolf of Winterfell." Ned doesn't smile, his face as sombre as Father's. The day of Jaime's release he guided her through the Throne Room, tried to shield her from the one black spot on the floor that people purposefully avoided. Sansa saw it anyway. She sees usually everything.

"Please clasp my necklace, Ned, would you." His hands are clumsy, but warm. For a moment, she closes her eyes and imagines her father gently squeezing her shoulders. Her wedding dress was a gift from Robert, who insists on calling her little sister. He likes her, seeing only Lyanna's and Ned's sister in her. It is still a safe enough position, to be one of the King's favourite. And she surely does love her ivory wedding dress, with embroideries made of silver thread. Small wolves and flowers and little stars trace the dress. It is magnificent. She made the final stitches herself, so they would be perfect. Ned's eyes are as sad as her own when she looks at his reflection in the looking glass.

 

Some of the people on court would jape and tease that Sansa seemed more a Tully than a Stark with her looks (the audacity to suggest such thing! It is her Flint blood, the blood of the first men in her veins that makes her stand out. She is kissed by fire). Stepping into the Godswood with little people attending the ceremony makes no doubt as to which house she belongs to. Robert unsuccessfully whispers to Jon Arryn that Jaime doesn't deserve Lyanna's sister. She doubts the Lannisters on the other side heard him. But Sansa did, and she agrees with Robert partially. Jaime doesn’t deserve her, but not because she is anyone's sister, but because she is Sansa of House Stark.

There are some of her brother's men on the bride's side, together with the King and Jon Arryn. Howland Reed smiles at her, the only other survivor of the Battle at the Tower of Joy. The crannogman is dressed in functional green clothes, looking ready for battle rather than for feasts. In a way, Sansa supposes, marriage is a war, and childbirth the battlefield for women. A brood mare, nothing more. Robert doesn't even consider her a person on her own. The other side is filled with Lannisters, uncles and dozens of cousins, Ser Jaime's best friend Addam Marbrand and of course her ever scowling new sister. She is one of the most beautiful women in the world, the Light of the West. If only her personality matched her radiant looks. By her side is little Tyrion, happily waving at Sansa. She gives him a smile back. Tywin Lannister catches her, but does nothing except turn his head and watch his son. They reach the heart tree sooner than Sansa wanted.

"Who comes? Who comes before the gods?" Ser Jaime has a very pleasant voice, although his words come out clumsy.

Only when Ned starts to speak, it feels final. The leaves of the oak heart tree ruffle and almost speak her name. "Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods." She comes to beg the gods for mercy and protection rather than their blessings. "Who comes to claim her?" This all feels so, so final to her.

It's the first time she looks at Jaime in fully. He looks every inch the knight she wanted as a little girl, so handsome with a strong jaw and fine cheekbones. She notices his eyes are a deeper green than those of his sister and father. He supsects these are the eyes of his mother. "I, Ser Jaime of House Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock, claim her. Who gives her?"

She tries not to cry. "Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, brother of the bride and head of her house." When Ned turns to her, he looks so apologetic, so sorry for what he's about to do, that it breaks her heart in two. Ned Stark, who lost two siblings and a father to the South is about to lose another. "Lady Sansa of House Stark, will you take this man?"

No, she wanted to say. "I take this man," is what she said. Ned gave her hand to her husband. And then they kneel. Sansa knows that this man probably prays to that silly Warrior of the South. She's a Northerner. She believes in the Old Gods, who have witnessed her marriage. The heart tree isn't the great weirwood from Winterfell, but it does have a kind face. She wonders who carved it, when the Targaryens built the keep only several hundred years ago, as compared to both Winterfell and Casterly Rock, which stood for thousands and thousands of years. The tree is covered by plants she doesn't recognize.

Please, she thinks, please let me survive the South. Please give me children, plenty of children, who'll love me for me, if my husband will not. Please. Have mercy. And when he drapes the lion across her shoulders, she feels lost.

 

vi.

 

She feels vulnerable, so naked in her room. The men grabbed all of her clothes, left her in nothing but her small shift, almost torn to pieces. Their hands were everywhere, and now she feels sick. All of them wanted a piece of the new Lady of Casterly Rock.

Jaime is naked, too, when somebody pushes him into the room, she can see his... manhood erected and she flushes, before looking away. It's wrong. They barely spoke apart from thank yous and mylords. Husband and wife, yet they don't even look at each other. He'd been a graceful dancer, though, he led her through the complicated southern dances with ease. She's afraid of him. How can behind that face of a perfect knight be an oathbreaker? Sansa hides beneath the blankets. She can feel his gaze on her.

 

"You're afraid of me."

"No, Ser, you're my husband."

"Don't lie, you're a terrible liar. You're afraid of me, the Kingslayer." He sits down and doesn't bother to cover his naked form. Though his one leg does block her from the sight of his manhood, for which Sansa is grateful. The women in Winterfell spoke, of course, and many a times Sansa had whispered with Lya under the sheets how it would be to share a bed with a man. The serving girls seemed to like it with Brandon well enough. Jaime rips her away from her thoughts. "Everybody is afraid of the Kingslayer. Afraid or thinks himself worthy to judge me." He seems far away and suddenly he's appears young as he actually is. Not so otherworldly. The people say he was Arthur Dayne's favourite pupil. They say he's a god with his sword - though Ned bested the Sword of the Morning at the Tower of Joy.

 

Sansa feels daring. "Why shouldn't we judge? You did kill the man you swore to protect."

It's the first time he really looks at her. And really sees her. He draws it in, the colour of her hair, her eyes, the curve of her nose. He studies her intently. "None of you understands." He whispers then, and sounds broken, while he turns away from her again. "None of you, not even Cersei. Though she is thankful I made her queen." Sansa shifts. Something inside her is moved by him. Maybe the lack of clothes also means a lack of false pretences. She touches him by the shoulder.

"Then explain." Jaime catches her from the corner of his eyes. "They say I have a quick wit. Explain it, and maybe I'll understand."

It pours out of him, her father's and brother's death, how he had to guard Rhaella who'd been raped by her own husband, and Elia, whom the King hated. How the King demanded his own father's head and how in the end, he wanted to burn the whole city away. "Which vow do you keep? Tell me? Which one? By what right do you all judge me? By what right does the wolf judge the lion?" He starts to cry and becomes hysteric. Sansa wonders what the listeners before the door must think. Ice-Maid of Winterfell. Made even the Kingslayer cry. She wraps her hands around her husband, slowly rocking him. The warmth of his body on her naked skin is comforting. When she looks down on him, she cannot find it in her to hate him. They were just children caught in war. Only children. Her own eyes start to water, and for the rest of the night, they shed tears for the people they lost in the war: Her father, Brandon, Elia of Dorne, Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar's little children.

 

vii.

 

They wake up before the servants come to check for the stain. Jaime only cuts his thumb and smears it on the sheets. When she wants to say something, he waves. "Don't. Not right now." She closes her mouth again.

Sansa doesn't know what to think. She's been awake almost the whole night, both of them have. When the crying stopped, Sansa put on her nightshifts, opened a window and lay down. Though they didn't speak or hold each other, they entangled their hands together. It was nice, once they found peace. She knows she must look terrible, with bags under her eyes. Not what she wants to look like while Cersei would be next to her, as beautiful as the rising sun.

"Could you help me with my hair?" She asks Jaime, because she cannot speak of what happened the night before. They need something to do, before the servants arrive. They'll give them another hour, Sansa is sure. Jaime nods. Her hair is thick and makes her feel uncomfortable in the southern heat, but she stubbornly wears northern hairstyles and dresses, albeit a lighter material. Jaime opens the braids she wore to bed and starts to brush. His hands are gentle, not what she expected from a warrior.

 

It takes several strokes for a strand to be completely untangled. Through the looking glass she can see Jaime's long lashes on his cheekbones. He's a beautiful man, with a cat's predatory smile and hair like spun gold. If Sansa hadn't seen yesternight's episode, she'd think him invincible and happy and sorrowless. Arrogant even. But he isn't, and neither is she. "I would like us to be friends, Ser Jaime." He stops brushing her hair and blinks, green eyes shining almost violently in the morning sun. "If we can't be lovers, we can certainly be friends."

"Lovers? You want us to be lovers?" He catches her eyes through the looking glass. She's turning pink. Not that she has any kind of experience in matters of love except for admiring Ethan Glover, and giving him a kiss, before he died, too. He'd been a squire to Brandon, in happier times.

"I want us to have children and I want us to be friends." It seems silly to demand anything of the Lion of Lannister. He is at loss for words, which isn't always the case as far as she can tell. Sansa slumps down, and then the words start to fall out of her mouth. "You probably have a lover, a woman you love, and it might be stupid of me to ask for something more because you don’t know me, not truly. But I’d like to have children, and for us to be friends. It would pain me to have my husband hate me.”

He looks at her in a strange way. “I don’t hate you. If anything, you should hate me.” Jaime places the brush down and the catlike smile returns to his face. “We make quite a pair, my lady of Lannister.”

She doesn’t flinch with the name the way she did on the wedding feast, when a minor Lannister bannerman called her that way. Sansa instead returns the smile.

 


	2. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He supposes they can be friends, even though there isn't a shred in her he can love.

i.

 

It’s his father’s manservant, the one who’s been with the family for longer than either Lannister sibling can remember, who remarks it first. Cersei coughs over breakfast and Tyrion only smiles. Jaime doesn’t pay attention to his father, not truly, because he’s so at loss of words.

 

“Your wife, Ser Jaime, reminds me of your mother.” There isn’t a thing in Sansa Stark that resembles his mother. She’s tall, almost as tall as him and has the heaviest hair in auburn, far away from the blonde, curly head of his mother that only reached Father to his shoulders. Sansa’s eyes are the deep blue of the sea, while Mother’s were green of colour, like his own.  “It’s her smile. I thought all Northerners must be savages, but Lady Sansa has the kindest smile I’ve yet to encounter. Like your lady mother, the gods guard her soul.” The servant excuses himself for his brazen words.

 

Jaime can’t help but look at Sansa when she enters Father’s solar after breaking the fast with her brother. She sneaks Tyrion a small cookie and gives him a smile like his lady mother.

 

ii.

 

Sansa Stark isn’t Cersei, of course, which is the main problem he cannot share her bed. In the last few days before Cersei’s wedding, she demands his every free minute devoted to the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. His wife says nothing of it, spends the days hawking with her brother and their bannermen or praying in the godswood. She visits Flee Bottom, too, and the common people begin to whisper, or at least that’s what Varys tells him. They call her the Maiden reborn, a woman who spends more time with the poor than any queen (or future queen) since Good Queen Alysanne. She became popular very quickly. Amongst the Targaryen loyalists she held the status of the opposite side of the Stark coin, as far away from Lyanna as possible. Lady Lannister, they call her, the Treasure of Winterfell.

 

Jaime likes her. He supposes they can be friends, even though there isn’t a shred in her he can love. She’s not Cersei, never will be, his mirror image, his equal. There’s a pang of guilt when he thinks of Sansa Stark. Robbed of her home, her family and robbed of a chance for a happy life. He doesn’t make himself grand illusions of being the perfect knight in shining armour for her, because he’s not. He’s an incestuous former kingsguard who killed the king. A mad one, for sure, but still a king. She’d be happy with a family, a family he cannot give her. Jaime can see how well she does with Tyrion. She would be a fantastic mother, if he could bring himself to father one upon her.

It’s not that she isn’t beautiful, she is. Long auburn hair and ice blue eyes, she looks almost Tully rather than Stark, but she’s tall and has the straight aristocratic nose of all the Starks. She looks more like Brandon than Ned, he thinks. Luckily, because horse-faced Eddard Stark with his cold, cold eyes would be terrible on a woman.

“Where are your thoughts, Jaime? With your stupid little wife?” Cersei is sneering. She’s taken liking in calling Sansa stupid or meek. She may be younger than the two of them, but Sansa already stands as tall as Ned Stark, and towers over Cersei.

“Don’t be silly.” The truth is, even snarling Cersei is more beautiful than any woman ever, especially when naked in the seclusion of her own solar. He kisses her forcefully. “My thoughts are always with you.” Jaime believes this is the first time he’s lying to his twin. It’s more to convince himself then her.

 

iii.

 

It is a mere day before Cersei’s wedding and he’s in a fowler mood than he’s been before his own. Cersei, excited to be queen, is scaring half of the maids and tailors in order to perfect her wedding dress. Jaime can’t help but be jealous of Robert Baratheon. He’s not seen her, even though he would like to, and remind her whom she belongs to truly. With so much free time on his mind, he spends the day with Tyrion in the gardens, even though he cannot quite follow half of what his little brother is telling him about the newest thing he’s read.

“And then, when I finished the book, quite interesting, truly, Lady Sansa sang me a song, a northern one, I think it’s called The Winter Maid. Such a sad song. Do you think she is sad to leave her home?”

 

It catches him off guard. Tyrion’s little mismatched eyes muster him. He’s too intelligent for his own good. “Well, you would be sad, too, if you would have to leave the Rock, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I’d be happy. You didn’t seem to mind leaving home.”

Jaime lets out air. “Well, the Starks they’re different. But I believe Lady Sansa can make a home out of the Rock.” He truly doesn’t want to talk about his wife, but Tyrion is so smitten with her, and there aren’t many joys in his little brother’s life, so he plays along.

“Mayhaps.” Tyrion pauses for a moment. “The other day, I found a tunnel through the walls. Did you know there were so many secret passages?”

“I did not.”

“Well, there are. And this one led straight to the King’s solar,” Tyrion lowers his voice, smart enough to know there are always little birds listening in King’s Landing, “I heard him fight with Lord Stark, Lord Arryn and Lady Sansa. She screamed at him, you know, said he was ruining Lady Lyanna’s memory if he continuous to treat Cersei poorly.”

 

Jaime faces his brother. “Did she?”

“Yes. Awfully nice of her, I mean Cersei treats other people ghastly; she would deserve to be treated poorly. No offense, I know you love her.”

“What is Robert doing that might be seen as disrespectful towards Cersei?”

Tyrion purses his lips and it looks rather too comical. An eleven-year-old little imp so smart and acting like an adult, it does seem funny. “I believe it’s because of his whoring. Sansa caught word of it and stood up for her good sister. What a Stark way to do.”

“It’s what families do, Tyrion.”

“No, nobody ever truly stood up for me, except you. So, no. Not all families.”

Jaime cannot answer that. The morning of Cersei’s wedding he lays with her, and for the first time, it feels wrong and deceptive.

 

iv.

 

Sansa Lannister, in her simple white dress and golden embroidery outshines every woman present in the Great Sept of Baelor, even Cersei. Simply because under all the pompous dress and hair and tiara one cannot truly see his twin. Like the Maiden reborn Sansa sits in the first row of the bride’s side, hair loose except for two strands pulling the hair out of her face, twisted into delicate braids. It makes Jaime’s throat go tight. She doesn’t deserve to be married to him, not really. There are little white flowers in her hair, stark against the rich auburn. Jaime tries to tell himself it’s easier to focus on Sansa than on the beaming new queen. He hopes Cersei is happy to be finally queen. It only cost him his reputation and his integrity and his friends to get her there. He would do it again, of course, because Aerys was mad and because he longs for her to be happy, more than he wants anything else. For a long time, he thought her happiness meant his as well. Now, he’s content with at least one of the golden Lannister children to be shining.

 

He faces the sept’s floor when Robert presses wet, impassionate kisses on Cersei’s lips, grabs Tyrion’s little hand. He almost crushes it, but his wife places a gentle hand on his arm crook, looking at him and ever so slightly shaking her head. Again, the guilt he feels nearly overshadows the jealousy he has for Robert. This little girl, some three years younger than him and incredibly gentle, has a heart too big for King’s Landing and certainly too big for Casterly Rock. Cersei seems to be enthralled by the masses, more focused on herself than anything else and it’s the state of how things should’ve been, all those years ago. Cersei, married to Rhaegar, him, married to a highborn girl, and everybody happy. Instead, they have a realm half broken, a man in love with his own twin sister and half a family butchered by the Targaryens.

 

He gets drunk on too much wine and almost stumbles through the dances. Cersei calls him a fool, and he must agree. He is one, foolishly hanging on a woman he cannot love, is not supposed to love. There is his wife, his beautiful northern wife and he only has eyes for Cersei, and Cersei alone, who has moon eyes for Robert, or rather Robert’s crown. Lady Sansa, ever gracious, doesn’t say a thing while he steps on her feet, though it must hurt, and though they must look rather comical. He cannot help but hate her for it. How can she be so silent? Where is the rage? The fume? Why is she so cold? When has she become like her brother this night, a stoic ice statue in the south? And how is that she cannot melt? There are glimpses, of course, of the real Sansa Stark, but she guards herself better and better than during the night of their wedding. He wonders how life in Casterly Rock will be, if their marriage grows worse each day.

 

v.

 

It is a mystery to Jaime, how Sansa finds them in the castle, when the two of them have made it their lives to protect that secret. But still, his wife finds him and Cersei, and it isn’t like he thought it would be. There is no screaming, no thrashing, no disgust. She blinks, once, twice, closes the door with an icy mask that has become her second face and leaves.  
“We must kill her, Jaime.” Cersei’s flushed face speaks of panic rather than sharing the bed. “We must kill her, or she’ll tell someone! Robert, Father… what if they find out? Jaime!”

Curiously enough, Jaime doesn’t think she’ll do that. She’s precariously aware of her own situation. Should Jaime and Cersei be put to death for treason, his father will go to war and kill whatever Stark there is. And should he not succeed – being married to Robert Baratheon as a poor reminder of Lyanna Stark is certainly not what his little wife wants. “I’ll speak with her.”

“You mustn’t be serious. She saw us, Jaime! This is treason!”

He knows that. But how could he refuse? Cersei, who was so broken, so disappointed when Robert called her Lyanna in the drink. Cersei, who was overshadowed by a dead Stark, about to lose her brother, lover and second half to the living one. “She won’t tell anything, Cersei. She knows of the consequences.” He cleans himself, and dresses himself. He knows exactly where Sansa is.

 

The Godswood was always eerily quiet for him. It is probably the only place in the Red Keep where nobody listens to. It was also Queen Rhaella’s favourite spot, the only one she didn’t suffer her husband’s aggressions. Sansa is praying, right before the spot where he kissed her during their private wedding ceremony. She looks pious and serene, like out of a painting. He’s sure Mother would’ve liked her, at least the night they married. He also knows Mother was openly disgusted by his and Cersei’s relationship, from the day she discovered and moved his quarters to a different wing.

“Let me explain what you saw.” His voice startles her.

“I don’t know what I saw, mylord.” Her eyes are closed and she seems to be utterly in prayer. He knows differently.

“Don’t be like that.” Jaime tries hard not to be annoyed. How can be one so courteous and cold?

“What do you want me to say, my lord? I don’t know what I saw. It is certainly not something I can explain. I saw a brother sinning with his own sister. A man I thought of as honourable, as a true hero, was committing numerous crimes. Incest. Treason. Adultery. I don’t know how this is possible,” she says. Facing him now and tears streaming down her cheeks, she looks more alive save for the times she offers smiles to Tyrion and him as well. She’s been good to him, holding true to her wish for them to become friends.

“I… she’s my mirror image, my better half. We came into this world together – this is something that is above us.”

“It is not.” There’s a finality in her words that reminds him of Ned Stark when he told Robert off for murdering the Targaryen children. “Love comes to the ones who build for it. Everything else is no true love at all.” She picks a flower up. “I tried everything I could to make her life easier. I fought with Ned, I fought with Robert. He almost had me struck, had Ned not reminded him whose sister I was. And here I am, the fool. Thinking my husband is honourable, for saving all these innocent lives. Yet he is the oathbreaker everyone warned me of.”

 

It is these words that sting him the most, after she leaves. He still stands impassively before the heart tree, kind eyes turning into mocking.

 

vi.

 

She bars her rooms from him, spends the last remaining days with her brother. Tyrion asks him if Sansa is cross with him, but Jaime denies. Surely, she must be missing her family, now that she is to depart. Tyrion’s eyes are suspicious, but he doesn’t say anything, and for that he is glad. On top of that, Cersei is shunning him, too, despite him reassuring that Sansa won’t say anything. It is all a mess, and he knows it’s his fault, his and Cersei’s. Mother knew, he thinks, Mother knew and Mother was right. He leaves Tyrion in the library, just to return to his room and throw up not even reaching his night pot. His manservant looks concerned.

  
“Mylord, are you unwell? Do you need something?”

“Get me my wife. Go.”

Alan suspiciously eyes him. “Mylord, mayhaps your lady wife should not see you this distressed.”

“I said get me my wife.” He slips onto the floor and starts to shake. This is the legacy of the Lannisters. No better than Mad King Aerys. She truly had believed him to be better, his wife, and he repaid the kindness by proving all of them right. It is truly heartbreaking, and truly shameful. He wishes he could stop loving Cersei. He wishes. Sansa arrives in a hurry with a scowl before she sees the vomit on the floor and him almost falling into it.

“Alan, would you please be so kind as to leave us. I’ll clean it up on my own.” Her voice leaves less room for discussion than Jaime’s before – even less than Cersei’s. It fascinating to watch her hold some command. She isn’t scowling, her face is stone cold. Brandon, he remembers, was all fury and rage. She’s more like Ned Stark, more like her father, Rickard. Jaime can’t speak, but she guides him to the bed and pulls of his shirt gives him a clean one, gives him a glass of water to wash out his mouth and hydrate himself before she efficiently cleans the floor with some rugs in his wash room. She doesn’t care it sullies her pale blue dress. When he calms down, he is ready to face her.

“I am sorry. Sorry you’re stuck with me.”

She stays silent for a second. “You had as little choice as I did.”

“I’m sorry nonetheless.”

She faces Jaime and he can see a faint bruise on the left side of her cheek. He wonders where she got it from, who would dare to harm the future Lady of Casterly Rock and the sister of Ned Stark, the king’s most trusted friend. “You have it in yourself to be good, Jaime. Don’t let them destroy you.” She leaves in a hurry of blue linen dresses and heavy auburn hair. The smell of vomit has been replaced by fresh snow and rosemary.

 

Jaime afterwards sends for some of the jewels of his mother, the ones Tywin retook from Cersei (he only left her the heavy gold medallion his father gave Lady Joanna on the birth of the twins) after she became a Baratheon queen. There is the fine rosegold chain with a diamond of the diameter of his small finger. It shimmers under the sunlight. It was the necklace his mother wore when she would receive guests because it showed all the riches of the Rock in a regal way. It was also the first gift his father gave her when he was courting her. He supposes, he should court Sansa, to at least become her friend. He’s never had somebody believe in him, not since Arthur Dayne.

 

(Tyrion later tells him that he found out it was Cersei who struck Sansa – when they are forced to eat all together by Robert at yet another stupid feast, he makes sure Sansa wears mother’s necklace. He also names Sansa Queen of Love and Beauty – the white carnation flowers striking on her red hair.)

 

vii.

 

They leave on a sunny morning and he can see Sansa is struggling with the heat. She is stubborn. Instead of pulling her hair up as most women do in the South, she wears it open, a thick heavy blanket of auburn trails down her back. On top of it she is wearing a gown of roughly spun wool. In the next village they pass by, he needs to buy her one made of linen, lest she fall unconscious as the voyage proceeds. He’s anxious to be back in Casterly Rock, far away from everything that has happened. He may even make a home out of it, again.

 

His wife is uncomfortable on the horse, which he finds odd enough considering how famed of a horsewoman her sister was. Sansa seems determined enough to ignore him during the ride. They reached a complicated truce in which nobody talks of Cersei, instead they focus on small things. She has a sweet tooth, enjoys poetry and music (as did he, once upon a time). Sometimes Jaime wonders what happened to her mother. He remembers Rickard burning, in front of him, how made himself go away. When he looks at her, he can see both her father and her brothers in Sansa, the same cool aristocracy he saw in Rickard Stark, even as he was burning, the one he sees in Eddard as well. He can see Brandon in her when the anger erupts from her after being suppressed for too long. But what of her mother? Was she the same gentle creature as his wife? Was she hot-blooded, like her eldest son? He falls back in the column to ride next to her.

 

“Mylord”, she greets him, though she doesn’t look at him. “I hope you are well.”

“I am, thank you, mylady wife. Although it seems as if the ride isn’t becoming you. You still have the possibility of riding inside the weelhouse with the other ladies.”

She tries to keep her face collected, but fails, in a glorious way you would never see of Cersei and it oddly makes him joyous, that he can provoke her the way he does. “I am a Stark of Winterfell. My siblings are centaurs. A weak rider in the North is still better than a good rider in the south.” That is a blatant lie. She isn’t a poor rider, but Gods know she can’t hold up with him, not in her dainty little sidesattle. He supposes if he could get her a real saddle, she’d be as swift as the wind, as she has the perfect posture and a natural way with the animal. But her very lady-like mannerisms (so different from Lyanna by many accounts and yet so similar) would prevent that from ever happening.

“I do not doubt that.” She can here the sarcasm dripping, no doubt. “Although I suppose we should buy you a riding gown of lighter material. Linen, perhaps.”

Her nose scrunches in a way that is frustratingly vain and endearing at the same time. “Linen creases awfully, mylord.”

“You’d rather die of heatstroke than be unfashionable, am I taking this right?” He laughs when she says precisely, and he can see the tiny smile on Sansa’s face. It is beautiful.

 

At the end, when they stop at an inn to stay the night, he buys a linen dress in a magnificent green that will accentuate her eyes. She even decides to share a chamber, to keep up the appearance of newlyweds.

 

(For his father’s sake, he’s sure. He doesn’t mind it though, when she settles her head onto his chest during her slumber.)


	3. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She isn't Naerys and he isn't Aemon Dragonknight.

i.

 

The first weeks in the Rock pass for Sansa in a blur. She takes over the duties as Lady Lannister. It’s a larger castle than Winterfell, massive yellow stones on a cliff with her chambers facing the sea. It’s serene, but has evening sun so Sansa barely sleeps the nights. The lady’s chambers are the most beautiful in the castle, Genna Frey told her – yet she cannot think of them as anything more but an oven. She keeps the windows open at night and in the morrow, before the sun passes and directly shines into her chambers. Everything south of the neck is too hot for her, stubbornly sticking to northern fashion. She discovered the airier summer versions from the north to work just as well as the Westerlander fashion, although the materials needed to be adapted. She understands winter, southern summers elude her however. Jaime began to shower her with materials for her dresses: fine linen from the Reach, myrish lace and beautiful silk, usually in colours she favours, although she never mentioned anything, such as hues of blue and slate, as well as greens and purples not to clash with her hair. Brandon used to say she was vain, but pretty, too.

 

Jaime is usually helping his father, often he is dismissed though. Neither Lannister has patience and both are too proud to admit defeat – which is why Jaime either trains or rides out or keeps pestering her with his presence. She isn’t sure how to feel about him. The pity she had for him for enduring the horrors of the Mad King is still there, mixed with anger and disgust and an odd sense of hope and longing. She dreamed of a beautiful husband, once, with honourable intentions. An Aemon Dragonknight – before the war took father and brother and sister. She started to dream again, those beautiful, sweet dreams, when the rooms get cool at the night and Jaime decides to sleep next to her. He claims it’s to keep up appearances. She doesn’t say anything, because Jaime’s dreams get worse with the heat, too. Screams of wildfire and dead kings keep Casterly Rock awake at night. It’s her who can soothe them, and she doesn’t mind.

 

When her dreams don’t consist of dark spots and dead siblings, they consist of fresh snow in winter and beautiful children with blonde hair and the slate eyes of her father. They fill her with sorrow and desire and happiness, all at the same time. Such is a night like this one, and the following morrow Sansa wakes up with a bittersweet longing. Jaime is lying next to her, his face for once completely relaxed. It amazes Sansa how a man could be so beautiful. Albeit looking a lot like his sister, there is nothing feminine about his features, especially considering how muscular and strong he is. His eyes flutter open and Sansa blushes the way he stretches. It is almost obscene.

“Were you staring, San?” He started to call her San, which she finds endearing, even if she acts frustrated at the lack of decorum. They found a peace, a rhythm, and slowly but surely regained some sort of friendship. They still avoid the topic of his sister, a memory that fills her with bitterness and rage.

She feels brazen this morrow, so she gives him a flirty smile. “Is it forbidden for a wife to look at her husband in the privacy of her own chambers?”

His smile in return is almost predatory, sending flutters into her stomach. “Of course, it is not. But only if the husband may look at his wife as well.” Jaime pauses a beat and pushes one stray lock from her braid behind her ear. “Especially when the wife is as beautiful as mine.” His hand lingers slightly. In a manner most daring to her, she leans into his touch and covers his hand with her own. Through her lashes she can see his smile turn soft, almost sad, but it warms her heart nonetheless. The interruption that is her maid ruins the moment, but she can feel his gaze follow her into her dressing room.

 

At breakfast Tywin orders her with the planning of a feast to celebrate the hunting season that is now the arrival of autumn. Sansa throws herself into the task, sending out invitations the same day. The budget set to her is almost obscene considering the feasts in Winterfell or even King’s Landing, and she makes the most of it without spending all of it. Jaime keeps her company, or tries to, but Sansa gets annoyed with him trying to distract her with proposals of swimming and picnics. Only when she gets the approval of both Tywin and his sister, Genna, she accepts, on the condition he takes her to the Godswood first. Since leaving the capital, Sansa has been thrust into her work as Lady of the Rock. It left her barely with time for anything, and when she did have it, she spent it with Tyrion, teaching him the harp. The boy’s fingers are too small and plump for her own, but she has plans to make him a custom one. He is fond of attention, and Sansa readily gives it to the only innocent in this castle.

The Godswood is small in comparison to Winterfell, the weirwood heart tree perhaps half in size, with a small face carved into it, wearing an unreadable smile. Sansa longs for the thousand years old trees back home, for the snow and humus covering the ground. Casterly Rock’s Stone Garden is that much. A Garden with a tree, and flowers and stones arranged in patterns. It has none of the gravity of Winterfell’s and Sansa has never in her life hated the Targaryens more than she does right now. She starts to cry. Jaime, who stands a few feet behind her, doesn’t notice for a moment. Only when she begins to sob. He rushes forward, concern flooding his eyes, which breaks her even more. She can’t calm down, not for a very long time, not until he begins to hug her and kiss her forehead, chanting her name like a prayer in front of the smiling heart tree. In one very fleeting moment of clarity, Sansa realizes that, perhaps, she might be falling in love with her husband, even if he doesn’t love her back. She isn’t Naerys and he isn’t Aemon Dragonknight – no, her story is a far sadder one.

 

ii.

 

She bars herself into her rooms that evening, not eating dinner with Jaime’s family, as he became accustomed to. He doesn’t know what happened in the Stone Garden, nor does he really want to. Lannisters mind that place, usually, for all that it is light and airy compared to some he’s seen, it’s also abandoned but for the heart tree and Jaime feels rarely so exposed then when entering. Sansa seemed to belong in that place, her hair matching the colour of the leaves and her skin as pale as its bark. But something changed, and Sansa cried and cried and cried. So, without Sansa’s skilled conversation, dinner becomes a bleak affair, and soon enough he is left without cause and anything to do for the evening. He retires to his own chambers, but the door between hers and his is bolted and Sansa doesn’t answer his knocks. It’s different from when Cersei did it. He feels anxious she might feel unwell and anxious she might somehow be angry. The steady peace they found is once again threatened, and he doesn’t know why.

 

He doesn’t give up to easily, though. “Please”, he says, “San, open up.” And slowly, but surely, she does. It’s almost a surprise. She looks a complete mess compared to her usual put together self – in her nightgown, eyes red and puffy.

“If it pleases my lord”, she says, “I would like to be left alone.”

He barges through the solid oak doors, not caring one bit for her request. “What is going on?”

“Why have the gods forsaken me? Why have they made me lose almost all I held dear? And why did they have to make me fall in love with you?” Sansa asks and her voice is breaking at the same instance Jaime’s heart does. Unsure of what to do, he grabs her hand while she continues to cry.

“I am falling, too.” She looks up to him, through wet lashes, and Jaime uses his free hand to swipe away the tears. “It seems the gods have cursed us both, for now I share my heart with two women.”

She slaps him, then. “You”, she spits out, “you have brought your curses onto yourself, with every broken vow. Starting with the one you made to me.” Her tiny little hands surprisingly forcefully shove him back, but he holds against it. His cheek stings.

“I know. I know”, he states frustratingly. “I am trying to say that I am willing to hold the vows we made before the heart tree. I am a sorry excuse for a Kingsguard, and even a worse knight. Perhaps I can be at least a good husband.” Sansa’s hands go still on his chest. In another situation, with them less clothed and perhaps her underneath him, Jaime would’ve very much liked the feeling of her cold hands on his hot skin. But she isn’t. “We’re not in King’s Landing. We’re here, and we only have each other, and mayhaps Tyrion.”

 

She kisses him. It isn’t shy, nor the quick peck they shared in the sept of the Red Keep. It’s deep, pure anger and Jaime allows it. It’s different from his kisses with Cersei. Her lips are slightly plumper and she’s taller – even in her (righteous) anger, her kiss is not as forceful or as demanding as Cersei’s. He doubts she’s ever truly kissed, but he supposes some people are natural talents. There is, after all, rarely a thing Sansa Stark doesn’t manage with decorum. When her hands snake up, though, he stops her. It isn’t the time to be selfish or to take advantage of the girl in her grief.

“You would regret it, if it happened like this.”

The look she gives him kills her. But, with resignation, she sighs an “okay” and turns around to go to her bed. Unsure of what to do, Jaime strips until he is in his small clothes and proceeds to lie next to her. It’s a slight mirror of their wedding night, but this time it is him who holds her. Sansa’s copper head fits neatly into the place where his shoulder meets his chest. “Tell me a secret”, she whispers, “something only I would know.”  
“Why?”

“So I know you mean it.” Her lashes are still wet, making them enticingly darker. Her eyes, even in the dark of the chamber, are of the deepest blue.

Jaime thinks for a minute. “I’m scared of snakes.” It’s a ridiculous statement, and one he’s never told anybody. He isn’t scared of many things – not of death, not of anything. The only time he truly feels alive anyways is with a sword in his hand or when making love. It’s unfortunately a trait he shares with the likes of Robert Baratheon. But snakes, those glib creatures with no legs, crawling on the earth as if the Gods themselves cursed them? That is just nasty.

Sansa smiles into his bare chest. It almost feels as if she’s kissing him. “I have never seen one. It’s far too cold up north.” She pauses, looks onto the wreath of white carnation, dried but hanging close to the looking glass. “I’m scared of not being loved.”

A stupid fear, for Sansa of Houses Stark and Lannister enticed the whole West with her charm. But he suspects that apart from Tyrion, not many a Lannister has shown her kindness. He kisses her temple, but doesn’t say anything else. Tomorrow, he’ll take her to the Godswood and say his vows again. She inspires him to be better. It’s an impressive feat.

 

(He hasn’t thought about Cersei for a long, long time, he realizes. And when he did, he spoke of a curse.)

 

iii.

It’s not even daylight when Jaime wakes her with a simple sweet kiss onto her lips. In the confusion of the morning, he asks her to dress and she does, in her pale white dress she wore to Cersei’s wedding. He sweeps her then through the door, her hair still in the braid she wore to bed and Sansa is slightly horrified at the notion of her having to go through the castle looking like this. But it seems the whole castle is still asleep, apart from the two of them and some guards. Jaime takes a torch and guides her all the way through the castle into the Stone Garden. It doesn’t hold the same abandoned look as it did the day before, but rather a serene and calm feeling, now that the sun is rising. It’s chilly, she should’ve brought a coat, but oh, well.

“Let’s say our vows again.”

She doesn’t know what to say, not truly. Sansa has never been a morning person, so mayhaps this is why she asks: “Who comes before the gods?”

Jaime’s beaming smile is a far cry from the day he first said his vows. The finality hits her. Vows before heartrees are unbreakable. The old gods will know if he lies. For him, Sansa hopes, he’s telling the truth and wanting this marriage out of the goodness of his heart. “I, Ser Jaime of House Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock come to be wed today. A man grown…?” The order is reversed, but she nods to him, encouraging him. “A man grown, trueborn and noble. I come to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim me?”

“I, Sansa of House Stark, daughter of Rickard Stark and sister Eddard Stark, come to claim this man.”

“Who gives you away?”

“I give myself away. Will you take this woman?”

“I take this woman.” And then he kisses her, deeply, passionately, that it wakes a deep, deep desire in Sansa. She has truly fallen for her husband.

 

They spend the rest of the day outside in the shades of a sturdy oak by the beach. Jaime takes her into the ocean in her small clothes only, and while she shrieks and is terrified the rip tide might take her under, he promises he’ll never leave her side. Jaime is a sight to behold in sun light – he looks every inch the knight and prince from stories old. The sun hits his face and makes his curls shine like gold. His eyes are closed and the faint freckles make him look like a summer god. He’s tall and muscular – looking at Jaime for too long makes Sansa blush, which she can blame on the Westerlander heat. They’re left mostly alone – the hunting feast will be tonight, and everybody is busy with preparations. Genna has agreed to look over the details for their sake. As newlyweds go, Sansa and Jaime haven’t been really able to spend a lot of time together. Regardless, Sansa enjoys it. It feels real, his teasing, the sweet kisses he presses unto her temples.

Once again, Sansa realizes that she is only five-and-ten and he is three years older. They are children, and maybe in love – war and grief may have hardened them, but this might be another chance for happiness. She should feel guilty – after all, she did lose a father and a brother and a sister in this war, but more often than not she’s angry with Lyanna for running away than anything else. So mayhaps happiness isn’t too bad. Her family is dead, but Ned and her and Jaime, they’re alive.

And oh, so alive they are when he pulls her up again into his arms. He sings bawdy songs out of tune, and dances with her in the most improper ways, but it makes her laugh anyways. He asks her to sing, too, and Sansa can only think of Oh Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass, and Jaime grins, joining her. She kisses him, then, not caring that anybody walking by could see her in this state – white dress wet because she draped it over her wet small clothes, nose red from sunlight and her hands tangled in her husband’s hair. She’s young, and she’s in love. It’s all she cares about, truly.


	4. Epilogue

From Maester Creylen’s diary:

 

285 AC, ninth day of the seventh moon.

 

Winter is in full bloom. Casterly Rock has been under snow for the past week. Only fitting that Lady Sansa, as a daughter of House Stark, would deliver her first two sons into this world in winter.

As predicted, My Lady birthed two healthy babes, sons. The births were easy as fat as twins are concerned, and the Lady too is of good health, albeit tired. Lord Lannister let the bells be rung by request of Lady Sansa. She claims that far north bells were rung to signify the birth of a noble child, and it would remind her of home. Rarely have I seen Lord Lannister indulge in anything, but it seems His Lordship is smitten with his grandsons. There has even been a faint smile.

Ser Jaime and Lady Sansa have decided to name the babes Gerion and Harlon. His Lordships younger brother Gerion is yet to return from his travels in the Reach, but he surely will be delighted to learn of this honour.

Harlon, so Lady Sansa claims, is the name of many a Stark. I personally only remember King Harlon Stark, a King of Winter of Old, who starved the Dreadfort out. Considering His Lordships fame, I personally think it a fitting name for a Lannister, although Lord Lannister seemed displeased at the notion of a Northern name. Lady Genna claimed the two names sound fitting together, and I am inclined to agree.

 

288 AC, two-tens-and-first day of the tenth moon.

 

Young Lady Joanna has come into the world on a beautiful day in the beginning of summer. Her mother is in good health – the babe is strong, too, with a stronger grip than either her brothers had. Ser Jaime had tears in his eyes. I cannot recall a time he’s ever been moved quite this much, not even when his firstborns arrived. I suspect it’s the magic of a baby daughter. Lady Genna, too, cried, especially after hearing the name. The late Lady Lannister is surely missed, although her good-daughter is doing a good job at filling in her shoes.

Lord Lannister currently resides at Crakehall overlooking a conflict between two very minor houses that Lord Crakehall has not been able to sort out alone. I have dispatched a raven, he will surely be delighted of the news.

Lord Jaime has let the bells be rung again. The smallfolk in Lannisport, so Ser Gerion says, have cheered when they heard. Lady Sansa is popular amongst the poor, even more so after opening a shelter for orphans and after the troubles of the last year.

Little Lords Gerion and Harlon have received the news of their sister well. Harlon, ever the wilder of the two, has already sworn to protect her, which moved his mother to tears. A happy family, the Heir to Casterly Rock and his wife. Happy and beautiful.

 

292 AC, ten-and-second day of the third moon.

 

Lady Sansa bore another son. This labour has been tedious, and long, but so far both babe and mother seem to be doing well. Lord Artos, named for the famed member of House Stark Artos the Implacable, Lady Sansa again chose a northern name and Ser Jaime agreed. I find it a strangely melodic name, with ancient roots. Mayhaps My Lady’s northern heritage is growing on me. There surely are fascinating stories from north of the Neck she tells her and her children. Sometimes I “accidentally” hear them as well, for I always liked to hear wether the stories from the Citadel are true or not.

Lord Lannister is pleased with the news. The bells rang again and for all to hear. Lady Genna has shown the youngest members of the household the newest addition first thing they were awake. Lady Joanna particularly seems enamoured, she spoke her entire lessons of him. I let it slide – the girl is excited, and she’s very sweet. Her brother, Lord Harlon, however, is still not progressing with his numbers, and the rush of the day has not helped. Lord Gerion has promised to help. The second in line to Casterly Rock is showing great potential and intelligence. His hunger for wisdom does certainly remind me of both his grandfather and his uncle.

Lord Tyrion sends his regards from the Capital. He’s sent the newest addition an apple tree to be planted in the Stone Garden, as he did with his other nephews and niece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might write a sequel. let's see if takes another 2 years lol.

**Author's Note:**

> a day after the show's finale this is all i have to say: fuck d&d.


End file.
